


I'll See The Colour Of Your Money

by rain_sleet_snow



Series: a certain ability to recognise objects under our noses [2]
Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:07:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3149978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/pseuds/rain_sleet_snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holed up in a shepherds' hut during a storm, Jasson, Liam and Vania see in Midwinter with alcohol, dice and impromptu philosophy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll See The Colour Of Your Money

“Mama and Father will be having fits,” Jasson said gloomily, surveying the small mountain hut he had holed up in with his youngest brother and sister. 

“Oh, who cares?” Liam said, plugging a draught with a corner of his spare dry shirt.

“They’ll be [i]worrying[/i],” Jasson said, wincing at the whistling screech of the gale outside. 

“It won’t do them any harm,” Liam retorted carelessly.

Jasson bit his tongue, wedged the door a little more firmly shut, and went to join his sister, who had spent a fruitful fifteen minutes flicking slivers of blue Gift at a pile of kindling and encouraging the resulting fire into existence, and who was now melting snow over it. The hut had been built and maintained for just such an emergency as they were now experiencing, and the hearth was in good working order with an excellent supply of firewood. He crouched down beside her, and she glanced up at him, slate-blue eyes full of laughter. He smiled reluctantly back at her and nodded at the fire, which still burnt faintly blue.

“I thought they made you do that the hard way in the Riders,” he remarked.

“They do,” Vania agreed. “Commander Larse isn’t here.” She dipped a finger into the melted water, decided it was an acceptable temperature, and poured off half of it into their water bottles before adding more snow and stoking up the fire. “How are the horses?”

“Fine,” Jasson said. He had checked that they were safe and warm enough in the sturdy little outhouse sheltered by the hut – clearly a recent addition, designed for the benefit of Riders, king’s messengers, and other people who might happen to be traipsing around the countryside in poor conditions, such as hapless members of the royal family. “Sparrowhawk is sulking.”

Vania’s mobile mouth curved fondly at the thought of her favourite horse, the most high-strung creature in the royal stables. “Sparrowhawk is always sulking.” She sat back, easing herself into a cross-legged position. “It was good hunting.”

Jasson made a subterranean noise. They had brought down one deer before it had become clear that a storm was coming on and they needed to seek shelter, and Vania’s superior eyesight, reactions and archery had secured them rabbit for supper. Jasson, naturally, had been expected to clean and joint the creatures, perhaps his least favourite job, and Liam had staked a claim to the cooking of them on the grounds that neither of his siblings had the least culinary skill. Jasson and Vania cordially agreed that Liam’s year in the Tyran court had left him sophisticated rather than tolerable, and that he was particularly up himself when it came to food, but they were prepared to put up with a little condescension for the sake of the best campfire cookery they’d ever tasted.

“Stop worrying,” Vania said fondly, and shoved Jasson, who obligingly fell over.

The water began to boil, and Liam came over and pushed them both away from the fire, making the obligatory noises about puppies in baskets, so that he could start cooking. Vania and Jasson moved away, and sat down on the clean and serviceable but old and dingy woollen blankets that had been left folded in a small wooden chest, along with two lamps that would hold witchlights cast by any mage and a tinderbox. Vania snuggled against Jasson, and Jasson put an arm around her. His cuddliest sister wrapped her arms around him in return, and rested her cheek against the heavy, soft cloth of his favourite green tunic. Jasson rested his chin on top of her head.

“It’s the first day of Midwinter tomorrow,” he told her. “We should be home.”

“Goody-two-boots,” Liam murmured from the fire, Tyran sophistication in no way hindering his ability to be a nuisance.

“They’ll be just fine without us,” Vania said. “And anyway, I think it’s technically the first day of Midwinter today.”

Jasson cursed, but didn’t dispute her statement. Vania’s internal clock was irritatingly perfect.

Liam, cooking the world’s most elaborate rabbit stew, huffed. “See, Jasson? Pointless anxiety. You should do as I do: live for myself, and for the moment.”

Jasson grunted.

“He’s got a point,” Vania remarked, jabbing Jasson in the ribs and eliciting a rather more pained grunt. “None of us know where we’ll be next week, let alone next year.”

“You know you’ll be in the Riders,” Jasson objected.

Vania pulled away and looked at him seriously, brushing her short hair out of her face. Father had all but lost his mind when he’d realised just how much of it she’d hacked off, even knowing that half of it had been burnt off by misdirected blazebalm. “Do I? I could be withdrawn and married off at a moment’s notice. Commander Larse can hardly withstand a royal order.”

“Who to?” Liam said snidely. 

Vania threw a small ball of blue fire at him. It hit and splattered harmlessly over his front, leaving his tunic a glittering purple. Liam grimaced, but said nothing. “Maybe not a moment’s notice. But if Father thinks it will benefit the realm and Mama can’t stop him, well…”

Jasson was silent.

“Or,” Vania added much more cheerfully, “I could be dead!”

Jasson put a firm arm around his baby sister and drew her back to him, instantly resolving to be her protector and guard at all times, no matter how impractical that was. 

“So could you,” Vania said brightly, “so could Liam. You could be married off, either of you. No more Lady Alinna, Jasson. No more Mistress Rosala, Liam.”

Jasson and Liam both gave unseemly yelps and identical demands to know how their littlest sister knew about either damsel - one a respectable maiden who could hit the bullseye at a hundred paces with her favourite longbow and spent the war masterminding hit-and-run raids on the Scanran army encamped in Trebond Gorge, the other a lady of negotiable virtue who spent the war running a highly exclusive salon in Corus – which only ended with them glowering impotently at each other, and Vania laughing her head off.

“And what about your Rider?” Liam snapped. “Callum?”

The laugh dropped off Vania’s face like a sinking stone. “It is what it is,” she said at last.

“And we are what we are,” Liam said triumphantly, “so there is _no use fretting_. Hear me, Jasson?”

“Shut up,” Jasson said absently, and ruffled Vania’s hair. “There’s no reason to assume we won’t get something like what we want, all of us. You’ve got the Riders, Vania. I’ve got my knighthood, and my… and my Alinna, if she says yes, if Father will let us. You’ve got your fun, Liam, your life in the moment. Roald’s got Shinko, Kally’s got Emperor Kaddar, and we all know what they really wanted was love.” He coughed, embarrassed. “Lianne’s got her healing. And also her Alan.” He wouldn’t meet either of his siblings’ eyes. “So, you know. Let’s not give up hope. Let’s not assume this is the last Midwinter together we’ll ever have.”

There was a short silence.

“You’re not quite as stupid as you look, are you?” Liam said finally, and his gentle tone made it a compliment.

Vania just smiled, her eyes warm and loving and guileless, and – for once – not holding lying innocence as she chatted sweetly to her parents, or to her older relatives, or to Court butterflies, and pretended she herself wasn’t more like the hawk she’d named her horse for. 

“But still,” she said eventually. “Let’s enjoy this for what it is.”

Jasson, glad to be rid of the heavy emotional moment, jumped at the out. “Let’s. I have dice in my saddlebags.”

Vania laughed, rich and warm. “Name your stakes,” she challenged.

“Loser gets to check on the horses,” Jasson said.

“I’ll take that bet,” Liam said unexpectedly, and put a lid on the stewpot. “This’ll do for a while. If you brought dice, Jasson, well, _I_ brought a skin of wine. Let’s see what the two of you are made of.”

Jasson knew the laughter on Vania’s face glittered in his eyes, his Conté blue eyes, and it was beginning to shine in Liam’s oh-so-dangerous smile too. He hoped that last one worked better on the gamblers and ladies ( _filles de joie_ , Liam called them delicately, using one of his prettier Tyran turns of phrase) at Mistress Rosala’s than it did on Liam’s siblings, who just thought he looked cheeky. 

“I’ll drink to that,” Jasson said, and saw in Midwinter with a smile on his face.


End file.
